


The Vampire in the Sitting Room

by LosttotheHoping



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LosttotheHoping/pseuds/LosttotheHoping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a vampire in his sitting room. Naturally, Sherlock is enthralled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vampire in the Sitting Room

For all of his powers of deduction, and all his ability to _read_ people, Sherlock Holmes finds himself dumbfounded by the man in the corner of the room.  He’s blond, with blue eyes and an open, kindly face.  An uncomfortable smile that he flashes the dancer girl with growing confidence every time she comes near.  She’s taken a shine to him, and checks on him every once in awhile.  
  
Before him on the table is a full glass of water that he hasn’t touched, and Sherlock can’t figure out what it is about the man that’s just... _wrong_.  
  
Those eyes are kind, merry; the corners crinkle as he smiles.  The dancer is back at his table again, and she reaches out, fingers almost brushing the lip of the untouched glass of water.  Sherlock imagines she’s asking why he hasn’t touched it.  A sturdy, calloused hand reaches out and clasps briefly at her wrist before pulling away again.  An intimate gesture; reassurance that she wasn’t leaving just yet.  
  
Despite this, the man doesn’t even seem to be concerned that she will, and _she_ looks rather reluctant to do so.  She’s been smiling more than him, and more, and more, every time they’ve spoken over the last hour and a half.  
  
She finally pulls away when she’s summoned by another dancer, and the man in the corner waves her off good naturedly.  He watches her go, smiling faintly to himself, before turning his head and looking _right back at Sherlock_.  
  
The consulting detective stiffens in his seat, eyes narrowing and face paling all at once.  That calm gaze is curious as he takes in every nuance of Sherlock’s face, and the tall man comes to a startling realization.  The man he’d been watching had known about it, probably the entire time.  
  
For some reason, this shakes Sherlock terribly.  Perhaps it’s the feeling that he, the deducer, had been deduced by someone else for once.  He gets up, pays his tab and leaves as quickly as possible.  He doesn’t notice the blond man simply walk out after him.  
  
xXx  
  
The next day, Lestrade demands his help for a murder.  As soon as he reaches the scene, Sherlock goes still.  It’s the dancer from the night before, nestled in the corner between a dumpster and the wall of an adjoining building.  She’s wrapped snugly in a blanket, eyes closed and legs curled half under her body.  Almost as if she’d sat down and just... gone to sleep.  
  
Lestrade is too busy muttering about budget cuts to notice how pale Sherlock has gone.  Actually, he probably wouldn’t have anyway.  Sherlock is always pale, after all.  There’s never any predicting his behavior, either, so Lestrade doesn’t notice the stillness.  
  
No, what he finally notices is Sherlock’s expression of horror.  Because Sherlock, clever boy, has already figured it all out.  Of course he has, it’s all there, right on the body.  The human teeth marks in her wrist, resting upturned in her lap as it’s examined by a coroner.  The holes in the midst of them, as if she’d been bitten by something with long canines.  The lack of blood at the scene, only a few drops spilled onto the ground by her left hip.  But worst of all it’s the lack of blood in her _body_.  As if something had drained it away.  
  
“ _But it_ _ **can’t**_ _be_ ,” Sherlock whispers to himself.  
  
“Sorry, what?” Lestrade asks, blinking at him.  “Sherlock, are you alright?  You ill?”  
  
Sherlock takes a step back, turns away.  “I’ll consider the evidence,” he says weakly, and hurries off to catch a cab.  
  
On the ride back, he can’t help but think that it’s the perfect disguise, that man’s visage.  He’s so kindly, and open, and happy-looking.  The perfect hunter, all but forcing those around him to just automatically trust him.  Even Sherlock had dismissed him at first, and that _never_ happens.  
  
Perhaps he’s jumping to conclusions, he thinks as he climbs the stairs to his flat.  He doesn’t know that the man he saw the night before had done this to the girl.  Perhaps it was a random animal attack.  Vampires-  He almost chokes on the the thought, but forces his mind to continue.  Vampires were reported to bite on the neck.  If that was the case, then, “Why bite the wrist...?”  
  
“It’s easier.  Less mess,” an amused voice spoke up from the dark depths of his apartment.  
  
Sherlock’s hand is on the lightswitch immediately, heart hammering in his chest.  It’s not hard to find the man standing in the corner, with the least access to light.  He grimaces as the fluorescent floods the room, and Sherlock takes it as a good sign.  Light sensitivity.  Perhaps allergy to sunlight.  That was good, right?  
  
“Do you have to turn that on?  It’s painful,” the blond says, lifting a hand to shield his eyes.  
  
“I’d like to see where you are,” Sherlock responds almost poisonously, even if his heart is hammering in his chest with excitement at this new twist.   _Vampires, hah!_  
  
The other male releases a put-upon sigh, frowning behind his hand.  “Can you use a dimmer light, then?  My eyes are very sensitive.”  
  
“ _That’s it!?_ ” Sherlock blurts, somehow offended by the admission.  
  
The vampire in his sitting room is clearly confused by this, and lowers his hand slightly to look at Sherlock properly.  “What?” he echoes, brows furrowing.  “Yes, of course it is.  Why do you think I chose such a poorly lit place to hunt in?”  
  
And of course, now Sherlock is distracted, so much so that he actually takes an eager step forward, eyes narrowed and calculating.  “So you _did_ kill her, the girl from the club.”  
  
“Kill-?  What?”  The vampire is suddenly standing and halfway through the room, startling Sherlock into almost taking a step back (but he irrationally remembers the first lesson he had ever learned; never run from a wolf).  “She’s dead?”  
  
Sherlock blinks at him, bemused, but that’s honest shock on his face, for sure.  The vampire isn’t faking, Sherlock would know.  So he nods.  “Yes.  The only injuries were the bite marks on her wrist,” he says.  
  
The vampire grimaces and starts to pace.  “I left her alive.  Drugged, but alive.  Does this mean someone’s here...?”  He was quite clearly talking to himself, almost as if he’d forgotten Sherlock was there.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” the consultant detective says quietly, drawing the vampire’s attention.  “My name.”  
  
Dark blue eyes are staring at him, bemused.  “Oh,” he breathes finally, and gives Sherlock that smile of his.  The kind one, if a bit awkward.  “John Watson.  Nice to meet you, Sherlock.”  
  
He finds it absolutely fascinating how... _human_ John is.  But he hardly has time to think over the blond’s particular allure before there’s a banging on the door downstairs.  He races down them and throws the door open, revealing Lestrade.  And he perks.  “Another murder?”  
  
“Yes,” Lestrade replies, brows lifting at Sherlock’s expression.  
  
“When was it committed?”  
  
Lestrade blinks a few times, before managing to get out, “Around ten this morning, according the coroner.”  
  
Which meant that John was off the hook, and these murders were not of vampiric origin.  Sherlock couldn’t have been more thrilled.

xXx  
  
 **Yes.  That’s it. I didn't have inspiration for anything further, so I thought I'd post it as is.  Please comment!**

**I'm transferring this from my FFN account.**

 


	2. Head in the Fridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a few interesting discoveries, and Sherlock can't be bothered to care.

“I don't think that's going to work,” John comments, leaning over the consulting detective's shoulder to peer at what he's doing.  
  
Sherlock pauses to give him a thoroughly scathing glare. “Excuse me. Who is the genius here?” he demands shortly.  
  
“Well, you, technically,” the vampire allows, though skeptically.  
  
The human doesn't notice the doubt. “Exactly. Me. Technically. Shut up and let me work.”  
  
Dark eyes roll expressively, even as John pulls away and wanders over to the fridge. He peeks inside and abruptly grins. Much like the cat that swallowed the canary, but his companion doesn't even notice. “Is that a head?” The blond turns his gaze back onto the other male. “There's a head in your refrigerator, Sherlock.”  
  
“Yes, don't touch it,” Sherlock replies, almost completely focused on what he is doing.  
  
“Well, no, it smells like ammonia,” John retorts, and shakes his head. “I don't much care for that sort of thing... I don't suppose you have any unspoiled bags of blood lying around.”  
  
“No.” Silence for exactly thirty seconds, then, “And don't touch the lady downstairs.”  
  
“I tend to lean toward young, beautiful people...” John smiles faintly, waiting yet another thirty seconds before Sherlock suddenly looks up at him, eyes narrow. “Don't worry, I don't take without asking.”  
  
“No,” is the flat reply, before Sherlock refocuses on his “experiment”.  
  
John smiles again.


	3. Prophecy on the Rooftop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts a vampire, and John resists a heady temptation.

Their first encounter with the mysterious “other vampire” is unexpected and devastating. The vampire, who calls himself “Prophecy”, grabs Donovan right off the street and holds her captive. Prophecy screams about power, and glory. He rants and raves to them about how he's going to take over the world.  
  
Naturally, Sherlock scoffs at this. “And you're going to do this from behind _Sally Donovan?_ ” he asks, askance. “I wouldn't want to be behind her _period_ , let alone to take over the world.” He doesn't look toward Lestrade, whom is slowly and carefully approaching from the other direction.  
  
When Prophecy becomes more insistent, he's only ridiculed more by the consulting detective, and in a fit of fury he throws Sally Donovan away from him. Lestrade frantically catches her as the crazed vampire lunges toward Sherlock, whose eyes widen in surprise. But then there's John, between them, Prophecy's sharp nails digging into the tender flesh of his shoulder. He drives John to his knees, growling about how he'll punish the “pacifist” for his transgressions.  
  
That's when Lestrade puts a bullet through his neck. Prophecy chokes a moment and takes off, leaving John to fall to the rooftop floor weakly.  
  
Sherlock is at his side in seconds. “John? John?! Are you okay? John!”  
  
John chuckles wetly. “Is that... worry, I hear? I thought you were above that lot, Sherlock,” he teases, struggling to sit up.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
There's a long minute of silence, during which John just gapes at the consulting detective. He doesn't need to think much to know what the other man is saying, and he can't believe it for a second. “You're an idiot,” he declares, and passes out right there on the roof.  
  
“Who's the idiot?” is Sherlock's bitter response.  
  
xXx  
  
Later that night, when John wakes, he finds himself in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock is passed out in the living room, hunched over a pile of papers – some police file – on the table. For a moment, John stares at him from the darkness of the hallway. He stares at that pale, tender throat, just visible beyond the rumpled collar of Sherlock's shirt. He thinks about that single word, and the meaning behind it.  
  
Not just the permission given, but the emotion, the care. They've barely known each other a day yet, and already Sherlock is willing to be his victim. What does that say to him? It should say something like “dinner,” but frankly John has never been very good at being a predator. No, he prefers consent and memory loss to struggling and pain.  
  
He swallows, a step taken without his will, without his knowledge. And then, another, another, and suddenly he's standing over the consulting detective. He's leaning over him in a moment of weakness. His throat convulses, tongue eager for the taste, mouth opening already. His teeth are inches away from that vulnerable spot, so easy, so full of life and blood...  
  
He stops, pulls back, and drapes the afghan from the sofa over Sherlock's shoulders. And then he's gone.  
  
Sherlock starts awake seconds later, fingers lifting automatically to the sudden weight, brushing the rough fiber of the blanket. He looks around, alarmed, and searches the apartment. Nothing. John has left.


	4. Victim in the Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is attacked. John is absent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible person for doing this to poor Sherlock. Also- no, John isn't human. Sorry for the confusion. Sherlock's just dreaming. Kinda my nod to canon universe

A week later, John is still gone, and Sherlock is wondering. He left no sign, said nothing. He hadn't even woken Sherlock to warn him of his departure! And then came the doubt. Had Sherlock done something that irritated the odd vampire? Had he scared him off just like he scared off everyone else?  
  
 _No, of course not, how silly_ , he immediately chastises himself. After all, how could he possibly scare off a vampire? If Sherlock had really bothered the man, he's certain that John would have just... eaten him or something.  
  
 _And you are officially obsessing_ , a cynical voice comments in the back of Sherlock's head. So he shakes off the line of thought and focuses on his latest experiment.  
  
Eventually, he's too tired to keep his eyes open, and stumbles to the bedroom. He flops out over the blanket, and drifts off. Twenty minutes later, he starts awake to find he's moved onto his back and there is a hand over his mouth.  
  
“It's me,” a familiar voice says, smile audible. Light, cold fingers slide into Sherlock's hair, and the creature leans over to smell him. “I can see why he likes you... such a tantalizing smell...”  
  
Sherlock knows he's pale, and that his heart is hammering excitedly in his chest, and this evil creature is going to eat him. Prophecy, encroaching on John's territory.  
  
“John is gone,” Sherlock whispers around the hand, that fact sticking to him like glue. “He left a week ago...”  
  
Lips press against the tendon, and they are smiling. “Even better.”  
  
xXx  
  
The first time Sherlock regains consciousness, there's darkness and panic and a calm voice very close. He sees Lestrade, and reaches out, grasping his hand. “ _Prophecy_ ,” he says, and fades again.  
  
xXx  
  
Next time, he doesn't even open his eyes, but he can hear a steady _beep, beep, beep_ , and the shifting of fabric. Can smell the sterility climbing into his pores. “John,” he mumbles, but it's Lestrade that answers.  
  
“Sorry, we can't find-”  
  
The rest is lost to vague recollections of kind eyes and a kinder smile, of a girl crying and a man staring in mute fury. But Sherlock knows he's alone now.  
  
xXx  
  
There's white all around the third time, and Sherlock struggles desperately to keep his eyes open. There's a needle in his arm, giving him blood, among other things. No one is with him this time.  
  
Sherlock really is alone.  
  
xXx  
  
Some indeterminate time later, after five more false starts, Sherlock stirs to the feeling of fingers brushing his hair from his face. Gentle, warm fingers. He wonders if Ms. Hudson has come to see him, and his eyes slowly open.  
  
John is sitting on the edge of the bed, and withdraws his hand when he realizes the consulting detective is awake. “I'm sorry,” he tells the human immediately. “This is my fault.”  
  
Sherlock just stares at him.  
  
The blond shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. “I let him in, Sherlock. I just... I didn't know he'd...” John sighs and rubs the side of his head.  
  
It's only then that Sherlock realizes his ear is bandaged. He reaches out, bewildered, but his fingers fall short mere inches. John blinks at him and catches his hand. “Alright?” he asks, brow furrowing. “You should get some rest, Sherlock.”  
  
But the detective can't stop staring. Can't believe his eyes. What has happened? Why is John behaving this way? He's behaving almost... human.  
  
The hand holding his is warm. Warm like the living. Sherlock shifts in bed carefully, reaches out. Fingers brush a pulse point, _thud thud thud_ against his fingers confirm it. He's so tired that he barely manages, “ _How?_ ”  
  
He closes his eyes. Opens them. He isn't stretched out, he's laying in the middle of the darkened hospital room. No one else is here, because it is just him. It has always been just him.  
  
 _Was I dreaming?_


	5. Brother in the Warehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade follow a lead on Prophecy. Instead they find Mycroft.

“Is this entirely... sane?” Lestrade hisses to his newly released companion.  
  
Sherlock scowls faintly. He has spent the better part of a week in the hospital due to the attack, and the last thing he wants right now is for Lestrade to stupid up the atmosphere. _At least it isn't Anderson,_ he mentally grumbles, then adds aloud, “Shut up.”  
  
He can _feel_ the DI's frown as they sneak through the shadows of the warehouse. “It's our best chance of beating him. You do _want_ to get rid of Prophecy, don't you?”  
  
The inspector is frowning but mercifully falls silent as they walk through the night-silent, cluttered storage space. Sherlock is right, he knows this, and if this is their best chance of getting rid of that supernatural menace once and for all, Lestrade will do what he asks. They have to find this vampire.  
  
A few minutes pass before Sherlock stops walking; his companion nearly bumps into him in response. There's a brief moment of silence before he hears the whisper of sound and a voice.  
  
“What is the purpose of you calling me here?”  
  
“Concern, of course, Mister Watson. Or should I say Doctor?” There's no answer, and so the second voice continues. “I believe you are acquainted with Sherlock Holmes?”  
  
Lestrade makes a muffled noise, and Sherlock distractedly waves him silent. _Who is that? Why does that voice sound familiar?_ He scowls. _And why is he talking to Mycroft?  
  
_ The conversation continues. “I was.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“I'm not. Is that all?”  
  
“Hm. Not quite.”  
  
 _Ugh. How much more insufferably smug can he get?_ Sherlock glances around, catching Lestrades eye in the process, and motions for the DI to stay put. _I need to get a visual_ , he thinks irritably as he inches away from his companion.  
  
“What else, then?”  
  
Mycroft heaves a put-upon sigh as Sherlock peers around a stack of boxes. Unfortunately, the only conversant he can see was his brother. “Are you aware that your association put him in near fatal danger?”  
  
Again, there's no answer, but it's hardly necessary anymore. Sherlock is frozen in place as the dots connect. _Not possible.  
  
_ “Ah. I thought not. He was hospitalized, until recently. Attacked by that... blood-sucking rat.”  
  
The still-not-visible second person makes a strangled sound. It may be a choked laugh. “That's original.” Mycroft only frowns. “Anyway. Sorry about that, but it shouldn't happen again. I'm keeping my distance.”  
  
“Are you.” Sherlock's brother does _not_ sound convinced, and suddenly Sherlock is inclined to agree. “Hm. I'll make a deal with you, Doctor Watson. You get to choose. Either _stay_ by Sherlock Holmes' side, or leave him be completely.”  
  
“How is that a deal?” the other demands, sounding irked.  
  
Sherlock nearly jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder, but Lestrade shakes his head and then jerks a thumb to indicate the speakers. ' _John?_ ' he mouths, brow furrowed in that annoyed way he does.  
  
He only gets a nod in response.  
  
Mycroft chuckles. “If you continue to not choose one or the other, then I shall have to... permanently deal with the problem you represent.” A pause, likely for effect. “And please don't think that I pose no threat simply because I'm human.”  
  
Lestrade tugs on Sherlock's shoulder, and the consulting detective scowls at him. The DI frowns back and gestures for him to come along. Sherlock shakes his head and waves his companion off. Lestrade gives up and leaves.  
  
Sherlock lingers. “Consider it. Come to a choice within the next fourty eight hours,” Mycroft continues.  
  
There's no answer, and after a few minutes, Mycroft sighs. “Do come out, little brother. He's gone.”  
  
Feeling irritated, the consulting detective rises to his feet and steps around the crates, meeting his brother's dark-eyed gaze. “What was that?” he growls.  
  
Brows lifting, Mycroft looks _incredibly_ unimpressed. “Brotherly concern,” he replies blandly. “He almost got you killed.”  
  
“I loathe you,” Sherlock retorts furiously. “Keep your nose out of my _business_.”  
  
“Never.” The older man shifts his umbrella from his hand to the crook of his elbow. “Is that all? I have a meeting to get to.”  
  
Sneering, the consulting detective spins away. “Piss off!” he throws over his shoulder on his way out.  
  
 _Stupid false leads_. Then again, he supposes it's almost natural to assume Mycroft is a vampire. _Stupid brother._


	6. Folly on a Vendetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prophecy is found.

John does _not_ show up that night, and so Sherlock decides enough is enough, and he isn't going to get his hopes up. That thought in mind, the detective goes about his mission. Mainly, getting rid of the menace that is Prophecy.  
  
He _finds_ Prophecy, of course. In the middle of dinner. Prophecy's. A part of Sherlock is incredibly satisfied to interrupt the vampire's dining on... some middle-aged man that had eaten far too much.  
  
The detective stops himself from analyzing; Prophecy doesn't look very happy to see him. (Not that he's expected otherwise, but maybe... _No_.)  
  
“Sherlock Holmes, infamous psychopath,” the dark-skinned vampire drawls as the fat man drops to the floor. “I should have known biting you wouldn't be enough to deter you.”  
  
Part of Sherlock must be masochistic, because he can't help but point out, “Actually, it _encouraged_ me. I like holding grudges.”  
  
Prophecy only grins at that, and suddenly he is before Sherlock, fingers wrapping around his throat. “Oh well. This time, I'll kill you quickly,” he declares, fingers tightening.  
  
For one single, horrible moment, Sherlock can only think of the pain. It's sharp and bitter, nearly overwhelming in its capacity to destroy his very mind. A _pure_ sensation, almost akin to the creation of life or screaming alone in the forest. ( _there's no one there to hear him, too_ )  
  
Then follows a sense of pessimistic irony. _Perhaps I should have brought backup this time_. But he's never had anyone who would be willing. Never in his life, except the one time John had been there.  
  
 _John. Funny time to think of a passing acquaintance, when you're losing your life_.  
  
And that is when John appears, coming to his rescue like a pale-skinned knight, only he bites people. He breaks Prophecy's grip in only a moment and throws the other vampire clear across the room.  
  
Sherlock doesn't remember hitting the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is dedicated to moriah93ohio, whom was lovely enough to leave a lengthy review. Thanks a bunch for the support, dear! I appreciate it!
> 
> To everyone else... comment! And thank you for reading!


	7. Offer in the Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets some news.

When he wakes, he's laying in a hospital bed. Again. Mycroft is standing off to the side, talking softly on the phone. His back is turned to Sherlock, which is just as well, because _John_ is here.  
  
Sherlock knows that this discovery is important, but for the life of him can't remember why. All he does remember is Prophecy's face twisted with anger, and John coming out of nowhere...  
  
And he remembers a dream, in which John's skin radiates warmth while his pulse _thud thud thud'_ s beneath Sherlock's fingertips. In the span of a breath, the consulting detective goes from laying to sitting, and his fingers reach for John's neck.  
  
John recoils automatically, eyes widening even as Sherlock checks his pulse. But when he seems to realize what the dark-haired man is doing, he stays still.  
  
Some part of Sherlock is both disappointed and relieved to feel nothing but abnormally cool skin, and he drops his hand. “I had a dream,” he mutters, not meeting the vampire's eyes. “You were alive.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock watches John's mouth curl up into a smile. “I haven't been alive in a very long time.”  
  
“It felt real,” the detective murmurs. “Somehow...” And he is suddenly very aware of Mycroft's presence, because his brother is watching them. Sherlock can feel his gaze, knows the older Holmes is waiting for the right chance to make some comment that's sure to wind his little brother up.  
  
Mycroft doesn't disappoint. “You're awake.”  
  
Actually, all it really takes is Mycroft _looking_ at him, to be perfectly honest. “How _observant_ of you,” the consulting detective snaps irritably.  
  
His brother does a very good impression of rolling his eyes without _actually_ doing so. “Now Sherlock, there's no reason for you to behave that way,” he chides. “After all, I've just fixed all of your problems.”  
  
That makes the younger brother both _very_ curious, and _very_ nervous. “What?”  
  
But Mycroft simply smiles enigmatically, tucks away his phone, and walks out. Though, not without the last word (as always). “Why don't you ask your friend?”  
  
A sort of silence lapses in the man's wake. John is the one to break it. “I'll be sticking around for a while, if you don't mind.”  
  
The Consultant Detective blinks, and eyes his companion. “I don't mind at all.”


	8. Chicken from the Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock muses about the oddity of having a vampire roommate, and John persists in being unpredictable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meh admittedly not my best, but I hope you enjoy anyway!

Actually, living with John could be considered synonymous with living with a hurricane. A condensed, energetic, sometimes snarky one. There is nothing quite like waking up to find oneself covered in a freshly knitted blanket, or listening to the _crunch crunch crunch_ of John breaking bricks with his bare hands for “exercise”. (Sherlock is still convinced that John does this just to make him uncomfortable.)  
  
Despite those peculiarities (and others), life at 221b Baker street is not unpleasant. In fact, Sherlock begins to associate it with the word _home_ , which he hasn't actually used since he was a child and still full of hope.  
  
Lately, there hasn't been a place hallowed or peaceful enough to bring that hope back, not since his stint with drugs in college, and his forced divorce from them.  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
The consultant detective straightens from his microscope, and turns his head at the frantic call. “John?”  
  
The vampire flickers into sight, grinning widely as he holds up a chicken, of all things. “I got one.”  
  
 _Blink_. Surprised, Sherlock rises and goes to investigate it. He vaguely recalls mentioning that he'd need one for an experiment, but he hadn't expected John to actually go get it. “Ah. This will work nicely,” he says, taking the dead thing from his new flatmate. He pauses, eying John a beat, and then sniffs. “You didn't _steal_ it...”  
  
“No.” John gives him an amused, tolerant look. “I got it off a farm. Paid for it and everything. I'm a vampire, not an idiot.”  
  
“Hm, the latter remains to be seen,” is the expected deadpan. “Get me some metal wire. A few different kinds.” He turns away and goes to set up the experiment while John delightedly disappears again.  
  
 _What an odd fellow_ , Sherlock thinks, and dismisses the encounter from mind. He has more important things to do.


	9. Browsing in the Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly collapses, Sherlock's annoyed, and John has mysterious vampire powers.

It turns out there are other supernatural creatures than John and vampires in general, which Sherlock has a fit about after he finds out.  And John, the bastard, can't muster up anything beyond sheepish guilt for not telling his flatmate up front about that.  His excuse was that he thought Sherlock would have just... assumed it.

Because Sherlock deals in assumptions.  Note the sarcasm.

In any case, the whole argument comes about due to a Wraith- and no, not the Ring Wraiths from _Lord of the Rings_ , but the really nasty 'latches onto your soul and feeds off of you over the course of several weeks' kind.

Yeah, it gets its claws into Molly.

After Molly falls unconscious in the middle of a sentence, and Sherlock throws an ensuing fit when John tells him it was probably a wraith, given the symptoms, they get their act together and start to research.  There is another few moments of delay when John tells his flatmate that he actually has no idea what they're dealing with - beyond that he’s read about the symptoms before - and fully expects Sherlock to rectify said lack of knowledge.  Honestly, Sherlock hates always having to clean up John's messes.

…. Well, maybe 'hate' is a strong word.

In any case, this inevitably lands them in the dustiest section of the local library, perusing old volumes for the earliest bits of information that they can find on wraiths.  “John, what the bloody hell is a _Karkadann_?”

John blinks and leans over the edge of the bookcase he is currently perching atop.  Sherlock doesn't know how he got up there, as there's no ladder in sight, but thinks it's probably another one of those unmentioned vampire tidbits.  Like super jumping or something stupid like that.  He tells himself he doesn't want to know how, but it's a blatant lie.

“A Karkadann?” the once-Army Doctor asks, eyes wide.  “How did you stumble upon _that_ looking up _Wraiths_?”

Sherlock gives the blond an impatient look.  “Nevermind that, what is it?  It was just a mention, and now I'm curious, because it mentioned horns that heal-”

“Yeah, if you avoid getting _gutted_ by the thing,” John says, and snorts as he withdraws from sight, leaning over the other side to fish out another book.

Impatiently, the consulting detective steps around the edge of the bookcase and glares up at him.  “What does that mean?  It's vicious?”

Pausing, the blond gives him an incredulous look.  “It's a carnivorous unicorn, basically...”

Oh.  Losing interest, Sherlock leaves him to his own search and goes back to his three stacks of books, pulling the next off the top.  Eventually, John finds what they’re looking for in the most ridiculously out of reach corner of the library, and they go out to find supplies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gawd! She’s alive! ALIVE, I TELL YOU, ALIIIIVVEEE! *coughs* Ahem. Sorry. Comment?


	10. Dead Girl in the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time he isn't sleeping. This time it's real, and that's Molly, standing before him. Dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the absolutely delightful NarutoRox, who actually took the time to review every chapter thus far. Thank you so much, honey! You're a gem!

Sherlock has taken to dreaming horrible things.  Fingers ripping at his skin, lips moving without noise, blood spilling...  All of it like slowly losing his mind.  Only this time he isn't sleeping.  This time it's real, and that's Molly, standing before him.

She's wearing black, a color he's never seen on her before and doesn't quite like.  Her dress is thin and satin, rippling in a non-existent wind, while the corners of her mouth pull down as she looks at him, hair hanging down in wispy tendrils.  Black tears creep down her cheeks.  "Oh Sherlock."  Her voice is soft, echoing somewhere between his ears and his brain.  "You see it, don't you?  See what you've caused?"

When he swallows, it hurts; he can't explain why.  His voice is trapped in his throat behind broken promises and failure and caught breath.  He has no answer for her because this is his fault.  He wasn't quick enough.

She smiles, and it's a heart broken affair.  "Yes.  You failed this time, Sherlock.  The most important time.  John can't save you from yourself, from your own mistakes.  Mycroft won't look at you after this.  Lestrade won't trust you.  And me?"

"Molly," he chokes out, hand lifted, outstretched for her.  For what?  He can't tell.

She goes on like he said nothing.  "I'm just dead."  Her smile is bittersweet and resigned.

Sherlock takes a step.  "Please," he says, and if it sounds like a sob, he will deny it later, if he can.  "Take me, not her."

Molly lowers her eyes.  "You've killed me, Sherlock."

There are whispers in the shadows, but he pays them no mind, walking closer.  "Molly... Take me for Molly," he pleads desperately.

"You're keeping him here, you know," Molly tells him, and his steps freeze in place.  Hazel eyes ringed in black look up at him.  "John."  Her face is full of sorrow.  "He stays to keep you safe, because of his guilt."

Sherlock is horrified.  The words ring true, and his knees give out beneath him.  Molly walks forward, long fingers sliding into his hair and through it.  He stares up at her, even as her fingers clutch at his hair, and the whispers get more insistent.

The last piece of the puzzle falls into place, however, as she leans down slowly.  “You’re not a Wraith.”

Molly pauses; then she screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I know. Shit be morbid. Brownies for anyone that can guess what she actually is.


	11. Showdown in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces his newest and most dangerous foe yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for taking so long to update! Thanks and chapter dedication go to Tam on FFN, for the entertaining review and the interest! Thanks so much!

Afterwards, Sherlock knows, he will revisit the sheer stupidity of what he does next.  For now, he embraces the woman before him as tightly as he can, her false realm crumbling around them.  "Banshee!" he claims loudly, and pitches both of them over the side of the roof they're suddenly standing on.

Distantly, he can hear John's screaming.  "SHERLOCK!"

Then all he knows is agony, followed by the return of her imaginary world.  The two of them are standing almost twenty feet apart now, hazel-and-black eyes wide as they stare at him.

"...you're mad," she says in Molly's voice, with Molly's face.  "You've killed yourself, and for nothing.  I won't die."

Sherlock smirks at her, trying to catch his breath.  The pain is there, still, he knows, even if he can't feel it.  "Neither myself nor Molly will die, if you take our place."

Her laugh is incredulous.  "Die?  Why would I?"

Sherlock doesn't let himself drop the charade, just holds up his hands and shrugs. "Why else? You hear the whispers too. Worse, I should think, as they're  _ your  _ victims."

Her expression tells him that he's right on the money, so that gamble paid off nicely. He doesn't let her speak, doesn't let her react, because the next few heartbeats are far too important to waste. Instead, he's already taking a step when the last word has left his mouth, walking toward her as she gapes at him. Molly half raises her arms when his fingers curl around the balls of her shoulders, but she doesn't do anything just yet.

"Look into my eyes," he murmurs.

She does, and the darkness crumbles. He blinks it away to find himself on the rooftop again, flat on his back with Molly curled over his middle. She's still far too pale, but her skin is warm when he touches it. Warm and soft.

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief.

xXx

"What did she see?" John asks him later, after the explanations are through, the joking is done and Molly has been carted off to the hospital.  She's fine, Sherlock's fine, everyone's fine.  Mycroft had complained for an hour about Sherlock not telling anyone what he was planning, because it made it very hard to coordinate.  Of course.  But…  they’re all alive and getting better.

Now, the pair of them are taking a taxi home.  "That reminds me," Sherlock says, pulling out his phone.  He sends a text to Anthea, promising repayment if she sends him blackmail on Mycroft.  She responds immediately, saying she'll think about it.  He adds a line about Prada, and she emails him some photos.  When Sherlock glances up, John is watching him intently.  "What?"

His vampire flatmate just sighs. "Fine," he says, and leans forward to tap the cabby's window. "Morgue."

"Yessir," is the response.

Sherlock tries to follow him out when they get there, but John turns and leans in, face mere inches from the consultant's.  "This is private."

"But it's interesting," Sherlock protests.

John's expression is warm; soft at the edges.  "What did she see?"

The human's breath catches in his throat.  He can't answer for a second, overcome with indignance and a little spike of terror.  He squashes it, and glares up at the blond.  "That- that's cheating."

"I'll be home later," John replies, smile unchanging.  He closes the door between them and disappears.

Sherlock broods the whole way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters and Sherlock do not belong to me, but to Moffat, Sir A.C. Doyle and all associated thus. I am responsible for creating the alternate universe, the OCs, and the storyline only. Please do not take and use or post elsewhere without my permission.


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